Dead Tomorrow (58 page)

She popped the door handle, clutching the canvas bag tightly. ‘That was a nice evening. Thank you for dinner.’

‘I think I love you,’ he said.

From the relative safety of the pavement, she blew him a kiss. Then, feeling sick inside, and more than a little drunk, she hurried into the house, her brain a maelstrom of confused emotions. She went into the downstairs toilet, shut the door and knelt with her face over the bowl, thinking she was going to throw up. But after some moments she felt calmer.

Then she ran upstairs and into Caitlin’s room. It was sweltering hot and smelled of perspiration. Her daughter was asleep, iPod headset plugged into her ears, the television off. Was it her imagination, or the light, she wondered? Caitlin’s colour seemed to have gone an even deeper yellow since this morning.

Leaving the door ajar, she went into her own bedroom, took off her overcoat, placed it inside a plastic dry-cleaning bag and, feeling sick again, squashed it into the bottom of her wardrobe.

Downstairs, in the sitting room, Luke was sound asleep, with a repeat episode of
Dragons’ Den
that she had seen playing on the television. Grabbing the remote, she turned the sound right down, worried that it would disturb Caitlin, then went into the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of chardonnay and downed it in one go. Then she went back into the sitting room.

Luke woke with a start as she came in. ‘Hi! How was your evening?’

Lynn, the wine rushing straight to her head, felt her face reddening. It was a good question. How was her evening?

She felt dirty. Guilty. Dishonest. But at this moment, she did not care. Looking down at the canvas bag full of banknotes, she said quietly, ‘It was fine. Mission accomplished. How’s Caitlin?’

‘Weak,’ he said. ‘Not good. Do you think-?’

She nodded.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘God, I hope so.’

For the first time ever, she hugged him. Held him tight. Held him like the lifeline he now truly was.

And felt the drop of his tears on her face.

Then they both heard a terrible scream from upstairs.

Shortly after midnight the doorbell rang. Lynn sprinted down the stairs and opened the door. Dr Hunter stood on the front step, dressed in a suit, shirt, tie and overcoat, holding his black bag. He looked tired.

For an instant, she wondered incongruously about his suit – had he put it on just for this visit, or had he been on call all night?

‘Ross, thank God you’re here. Thank you. Thank you for coming.’

She had to struggle to resist hugging him in gratitude.

‘Sorry it took me a while. I was dealing with another emergency when you rang.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.’

‘How is she?’

‘Terrible. She keeps screaming out with stomach pains and crying.’

He strode up the stairs and she followed him into Caitlin’s bedroom. Luke stood there, looking bewildered, holding Caitlin’s hand. In the dim glow of the bedside light, perspiration was pouring down her face. There were scratch marks all over her neck and arms.

‘Hello, Caitlin,’ the doctor said. ‘Tell me how you are feeling?’

‘Actually, you know what?’ She spoke in a breathless rasp. ‘Not great actually.’

‘Do you have an acute pain?’

‘I’m in so much pain. Please – please stop the itching.’

‘Where exactly is the pain, Caitlin?’ he asked.

‘I want to go home,’ she gasped.

Ross Hunter frowned. ‘Home?’ Then he said gently, ‘You are home.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘It’s OK,’ Lynn intervened. ‘She’s talking about where we first lived. Winter Cottage.’

‘Why do you want to go there, Caitlin?’ he asked.

She stared at him, opened her mouth as if to answer, then appeared to have difficulty in breathing for some moments.

‘I think I’m dying,’ she gasped, then she closed her eyes and let out a long, dreadful moan.

Ross Hunter gripped her wrist, checking her pulse. Then he stared into her eyes.

‘Can you describe the pain in your tummy?’

‘Awful,’ she gasped, her eyes still closed. ‘It’s burning. I’m burning.’

She suddenly thrashed, twisting from right to left, then back, like some crazed animal.

Lynn switched on the overhead light. Caitlin’s face, and now her eyes too, which sprang open, were the colour of nicotine.

Inside, Lynn was burning too. Her whole insides felt as if they were being twisted into a tourniquet.

‘It’s OK, darling. Angel, it’s OK. It’s OK.’

‘Can you show me where it hurts exactly?’

She opened her nightdress and pointed. Ross Hunter placed his hand there for a few moments. Then he peered closely at her eyes. Then, telling Caitlin they would be back in a few moments, he took Lynn’s arm and led her out of the room, closing the door.

Luke was standing, ashen, on the landing.

‘Is she going to be all right?’ he asked.

Lynn nodded at him, trying to give him reassurance, but wanted a few moments in private with the doctor.

‘Would you mind fetching me a glass of water, Luke?’

‘No – er, sure. Yes, of course, Lynn.’ He disappeared downstairs.

‘Lynn,’ Ross Hunter said, ‘we need to get her into hospital right away. I’m extremely concerned at her condition.’

‘Please, Ross, can we just wait until tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon? She does have moments when she seems really strong – then she relapses. She’ll be OK for a little longer.’

He put his finely manicured hands on her shoulders and stared hard at her.

‘Yes, she might rally every now and then, for a short while, when she gets a build-up of strength, but don’t be fooled. Those are her very last reserves she uses up, every time that happens. Lynn, you need to understand that without emergency medical treatment, she might not survive until tomorrow afternoon. She’s suffering almost total liver failure. Her body is being poisoned by her own toxins.’

Tears began streaming down Lynn’s face. She felt giddy, felt his firm hands steadying her as she swayed. Got to be strong, she thought. Come all this way. Got to be really strong now. The German woman was coming to collect her at midday. Just a few hours’ time.
Have to hang on till then.

She stared back at him, determinedly. ‘Ross, I can’t, not tonight.’

‘Why on earth not? Are you mad?’

‘I can’t let her go into hospital to die. That’s what’s going to happen. She’s just going to die in there.’

‘She won’t die if she gets immediate treatment.’

‘But she will die without a new liver, Ross, and I don’t have any faith they are going to find her one.’

‘It’s her only chance, Lynn.’

‘I can’t tonight, Ross. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?’

‘I don’t understand your reluctance.’

Luke was coming up the stairs with the water. She took it gratefully from him, then he stayed, listening. She could hardly tell him to go away.

‘I want you to give her something yourself, Ross.’

‘I’m not a liver specialist, Lynn.’

‘You’re a fucking doctor, for Chrissake!’ she snapped at him. Then she shook her head at herself. ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry, Ross. But you must be able to give her something. I don’t know, some boost for her liver, something to stop the damn pain, something to perk her up, a shot of vitamins or something.’

He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Lynn, I’m going to call an ambulance.’

‘NO!’

Her sudden vehemence startled him. For some moments they both just stared at each other, in a kind of Mexican stand-off.

Then he gave her a strange look.

‘Is something going on, Lynn? That I don’t know about? Are you planning to take her abroad, is that it? To get a transplant in China?’

She stared back at him without responding, wondering whether she dared to take him into her trust, caught Luke’s eye, willing him to keep silent.

‘No,’ she said.

‘She wouldn’t survive the journey, Lynn.’

‘I – I’m not taking her abroad.’

‘So why do you want to delay her going into hospital?’

‘Just don’t ask me, Ross, OK?’

He frowned deeply. ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s going on. Are you seeing some alternative practitioner? A faith healer?’

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly short of breath with nerves, the word jetting out. ‘Yes. I – I have someone-’

‘They could see her in hospital, surely?’

Lynn shook her head vigorously.

‘Do you understand how much you are endangering Caitlin’s life, doing this?’

‘And what the hell has your damn system done for her so far?’ Luke suddenly said, simmering with rage. ‘What’s your bloody National Health done for her? Drag her in and out of hospital for years, putting her on the transplant list and getting all her hopes up, finding her a liver, then deciding instead to give it to some fuck-wit alcoholic so he can have a couple more years in the boozer? What do you want to do – send her back up to that hell-hole so more people can promise her a liver she’s never going to bloody well get?’

He turned away, dabbing his eyes with the backs of his fists.

In the silence that followed, Lynn and the doctor stared bleakly at each other.

Sniffing, she said, ‘He’s right.’

‘Lynn,’ Ross Hunter said gravely, ‘I’ll give her a strong shot of antibiotics and I’ll leave you some tablets to give her every four hours. They’ll help reduce the infection which is causing her the pain. If I give her an enema, that will help too by reducing the protein build-up in the bowel. She should really be on a fluid drip – you need to get a lot of liquid down her.’

‘What sort?’

‘Glucose. She needs a lot. And you have to get her to eat, as much food as she can get down her.’

‘This will work, will it, Ross?’

He looked at her sternly. ‘If you do all those things, hopefully she will rally for a while. But what you are doing is dangerous and you’re only buying a short amount of time. Do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon. Unless there’s a dramatic improvement, which I don’t think we’re going to see, then I’m sending her straight to hospital. All right?’

She threw her arms around him and hugged him.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, tearfully. ‘Thank you.’

Pulling his coat on, Glenn Branson left Bella Moy sitting in the warmth of the unmarked police car, crossed the narrow street behind the Metropole Hotel and once more rang the bell marked 1202, J. Baker. Then he stood outside the tower block in the icy wind, waiting for any sound to come down the speaker system.

Yet again, silence.

It was now just after four in the morning. In his pocket was the search warrant that had been signed at eleven last night by Juliet Smith, a senior magistrate he had always found helpful. Since then they had maintained a vigil here through the long night, only driving off for two brief periods.

The first had been to visit one of Cosmescu’s known haunts, the Rendezvous Casino in the Marina, but the manager told them, with some regret in his voice, that unusually Mr Baker had not been there for a few days. The second had been to get bacon sandwiches and coffee from the Market Diner, one the city’s few all-night cafés.

He got back into the car shivering, slamming the door gratefully against the elements. The smell of greasy bacon lingered.

Bella looked at him wearily. ‘I think it’s time to wake up the caretaker,’ she said.

‘Yup, seems very selfish to be the only ones appreciating this beautiful night,’ he said.

‘Very selfish,’ she agreed.

They climbed out, locked the doors, then walked back across to the front door. Glenn pressed the button marked Concierge.

There was no response. After a few moments he tried again. About thirty seconds went by, then there was a sharp crackle, followed by a voice with a strong Irish accent.

‘Yes, who’s that?’

‘Police,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We have a search warrant for one of your flats and need you to let us in.’

The man sounded suspicious. ‘Police, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fek! Just be giving me a minute, will ya, to get some clothes on.’

A short while later the front door was opened by a strong-looking, shaven-headed man of about sixty, with a broken, boxer’s nose, wearing a sweatshirt, baggy jogging bottoms and flip-flops.

‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Sergeant Moy,’ Glenn said, holding up his warrant card.

Bella produced hers too and the Irishman squinted at them in turn with suspicion.

‘And your name is?’ Bella asked.

Folding his arms defensively, the concierge replied, ‘Dowler. Oliver Dowler.’

Then Glenn produced a sheet of paper. ‘We have a search warrant for Flat 1202 and we’ve been ringing the occupant’s bell regularly since just after eleven last night, with no response.’

‘Well, now… 1202?’ Oliver Dowler said with a frown. Then he raised a finger and gave a cheery smile. ‘I’m not surprised you’re getting no answer. The occupant vacated the premises yesterday. You’ve just missed him.’

Glenn cursed.

‘Vacated?’ Bella Moy queried.

‘He moved out.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ Glenn asked.

‘Abroad,’ the concierge said. ‘Fed up with the English climate.’ Then he jabbed his own chest. ‘Just like me – I got two more years to go, then I’m retiring to the Philippines.’

‘Do you have a forwarding address or a phone number?’

‘Nothing at all. He said he would be in touch.’

Glenn pointed upwards. ‘Let’s go to his flat.’

The three of them rode the lift and stepped straight out into the penthouse.

True to Oliver Dowler’s word, Cosmescu had indeed vacated the place. There was not one piece of furniture left. No carpet, rug, not even any rubbish of any kind. A couple of bare light bulbs hung from their flex, and a few down-lighters burned starkly. There was a strong smell of fresh paint.